Anything can happen on the day, it's true. But that misses the point. English rugby has been consistently good for 10 years, English cricket has been, to put it kindly, inconsistent. There's a basic explanation. Sport, at this level, is played mainly in the head. The English rugby team have commanding individuals in key positions, people with presence. The English cricket team have none. Passion, pride, commitment, all those over-used words, count for nothing in the face of large, imposing figures who invigorate their own players and intimidate the opposition.

It is not only their size or skill but their sheer force of personality that earns them their fearsome reputation. It cows opponents into submission. Martin Johnson has this `presence' in bundles. You can even feel it at home. The close up of him singing the national anthem before the match, the menacing stare is better not seen by anyone of a nervous disposition. He wears a permanent `you-and-who's-army?' expression. He looks like the Terminator in shorts.

Perhaps the Suffocater would be a more appropriate moniker. Against Ireland, it was not so much his magnetic runs, drawing in defenders like iron filings, that was so destructive. It was the way, after England had scored, he snuffed out the Irish response at every restart or set piece, hoovering up the ball like a giant vacuum cleaner, sucking the life out of the enemy.

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Men like Johnson imbue colleagues with tangible confidence. It frees their spirit with him at their shoulder, or feeling opponents' collars. Jonny Wilkinson, no mean talent himself, metamorphosed as Zinedine Zidane against Ireland, his sublime body weaves consistently beating two men, creating time and space for others. His brilliance surprised everyone, even himself. Johnson was the catalyst. If you doubt that, consider this. In Dublin last October, Johnson was missing. England lost. After an hour's play on Saturday when Johnson was substituted, the score was 45-11. For the last Johnson-less 20 minutes it was 0-0. Ireland were permanently camped in England's half and, visibly galvanised by his absence, even had the temerity to steal the ball from set pieces.

Since the mid-Eighties, English rugby teams have usually had a player or two of Johnson's calibre. First there was Wade Dooley and Paul Ackford, then Brian Moore and his terrible twin Jeff Probyn, who once issued such a dire warning to a reputable front-row opponent attempting something gratuitous that he did not see the player for dust afterwards. More recently, Lawrence Dallaglio has brought similar imposing qualities to the fringes of the scrum.

They have an aura, these individuals, that upsets your biomechanics. Viv Richards had it in cricket. His arrogant strut to the crease turned the sinew of you, the bowler, into sludge. The intended probing out-swinger materialises as a wide, inviting long-hop. Ambition becomes apprehension. Glenn McGrath is the same, mesmerising you into mistakes. McGrath is like Johnson, a player of such unwavering conviction that occasionally he oversteps the mark. These transgressions should be forgiven (which is not to say they should remain unpunished). Total immersion is not something controllable by an on-off switch.

English cricket has not had a man like this since . . . well, you know don't you? Gooch and Gower had their moments, Thorpe and Gough, too, but no one has been able to regularly assert themselves on, spread fear into, the opposition. That accounts for England's unpredictability. Nasser Hussain called them "flat" on Saturday. With a Johnson/McGrath figure, you might have the odd dark hour but you are never totally eclipsed.

Andrew Flintoff might have what it takes. Time will tell. For the moment, England can only ponder what might have been. Through the Nineties, Graeme Hick and Andrew Caddick were the two most intimidating England players in county cricket. Neither has properly managed to transfer that to the international arena and both, in spite of recent rhetoric, know it.

It emphasises the underlying futility of coaching. Duncan Fletcher has done everything possible to mould England into a stronger physical unit, but mental superiority is given not made. A great coach is not someone who can turn water into wine. He is a man who can hang on to his job long enough for the intimidating ingredients to assemble in the team. Clive Woodward might just be that man.

Five members of Britain's winter Olympic team got their winter sport induction at Richmond ice rink. While sympathising with all those would-be ice-dancing champions bemoaning its (1992) demolition, its continued presence might have been more debilitating. At my school, Latymer, in the neighbouring borough, there were three choices if games was rained off.

Rowing, a five-mile run, or skating at Richmond. Many chose skating since it meant an afternoon smoking and smooching with local girls (or acting as a voyeur in my case). Without the rink, Latymer might have produced many more international sportsmen than Andy Holmes (rowing) and Dan Luger (rugby).